“Well, we couldn’t. You see,” he added, looking up, “they broke through Monastir Pass two days ago. Your men back there know more about it than we do. This is just a supporting column to polish off any leftovers like us.”
“Then—we’re cut off?” Pommy asked.
Horne nodded. “You have been for two days. How long you been here?”
“Just three days,” Benton said. He studied Horne thoughtfully. “What are you? A Yank?”
Horne shrugged. “I guess so. When I joined up in Spain, they took my citizenship away. It was against the law to fight fascism then. If it was wrong then, it’s wrong now. But me, I feel just the same. I’ll fight them in China, in Spain, in Africa, or anywhere else.
“In Spain when everything was busting up, I heard about this guy Koska. One of his men was with us, so when he went back, I trailed along.”
“They’re coming,” Sackworth said. “I can see the tank.”
“All right,” Benton said. He finished his coffee.
“Did you fight any Germans in Spain?” Pommy asked.
“Yeah.” Mike Horne brushed invisible dust from the gun and fed a belt of cartridges into it. “Most of them aren’t much better than the Italians. They fight better—the younger ones try harder—but all they know how to do is die.”
“It’s something to know that,” Sackworth said.
“Nuts. Anybody can die. Everybody does. And dead soldiers never won any battles. The good soldier is the one who keeps himself alive and fighting. This bravery stuff—that’s for milksops. For pantywaists. All of us are scared, but we fight just the same.”
“The tank’s getting closer,” Sackworth said. He was plainly worried and showed it.
“I got the .50,” Horne said. He settled himself comfortably into the sand and moved his gun on the swivel. “Let it get closer. Don’t fire until they are close up to us. I’ll take the tank. You take the first truck with the other gun, I’ll take the second, an’ so on. Get the drivers if you can.”
They were silent. The rumble of the tank and heavy clank of the tread drew nearer. Behind them rolled the trucks, the men sitting in tight groups. They apparently expected no trouble.
“I’d have expected them to send a patrol,” Benton said, low voiced.
“They did,” Horne replied.
They looked at him, startled. His eyes were on the gray-green column. He had sighted the fifty at the gun aperture on the tank.
“All right,” he said suddenly.
His gun broke into a hoarse chatter, slamming steel-jacketed bullets at the tank. Then its muzzle lifted suddenly and swept the second truck. Soldiers were shouting and yelling, spilling from trucks like madmen, but the two first trucks were smashed into carriers of death before the men could move. The Germans farther back had found their enemy, and steel-jacketed bullets smashed into the parapet. Pommy felt something like a hot whiplash along his jaw.
They were above the column and out of reach of the tank. Mike Horne stood up suddenly and depressed the gun muzzle. The tank was just below. The gun chattered, and the tank slewed around sideways and drove full tilt into the rock wall as though to climb it.
Horne dropped back. “The older ones have a soft spot on top,” he said.
The men of the broken column ran for shelter. Some of them tried to rush the steep path, but the fire blasted them back to the road, dead or dying. Others, trying to escape the angry bursts from the two guns, tried to scramble up the walls of the pass but were mowed down relentlessly.
It had been a complete and shocking surprise. The broken column became a rout. Horne stopped the .50 and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He winked at Ryan.
“Nice going, kid. That’s one tank that won’t bother your pals.”
Ryan peered around the rocks. The pass was empty of life. The wrecked tank was jammed against the rock wall, and one of the trucks had plunged off the precipice into the ravine. Another was twisted across the road.
A
“Then—we’re cut off?” Pommy asked.
Horne nodded. “You have been for two days. How long you been here?”
“Just three days,” Benton said. He studied Horne thoughtfully. “What are you? A Yank?”
Horne shrugged. “I guess so. When I joined up in Spain, they took my citizenship away. It was against the law to fight fascism then. If it was wrong then, it’s wrong now. But me, I feel just the same. I’ll fight them in China, in Spain, in Africa, or anywhere else.
“In Spain when everything was busting up, I heard about this guy Koska. One of his men was with us, so when he went back, I trailed along.”
“They’re coming,” Sackworth said. “I can see the tank.”
“All right,” Benton said. He finished his coffee.
“Did you fight any Germans in Spain?” Pommy asked.
“Yeah.” Mike Horne brushed invisible dust from the gun and fed a belt of cartridges into it. “Most of them aren’t much better than the Italians. They fight better—the younger ones try harder—but all they know how to do is die.”
“It’s something to know that,” Sackworth said.
“Nuts. Anybody can die. Everybody does. And dead soldiers never won any battles. The good soldier is the one who keeps himself alive and fighting. This bravery stuff—that’s for milksops. For pantywaists. All of us are scared, but we fight just the same.”
“The tank’s getting closer,” Sackworth said. He was plainly worried and showed it.
“I got the .50,” Horne said. He settled himself comfortably into the sand and moved his gun on the swivel. “Let it get closer. Don’t fire until they are close up to us. I’ll take the tank. You take the first truck with the other gun, I’ll take the second, an’ so on. Get the drivers if you can.”
They were silent. The rumble of the tank and heavy clank of the tread drew nearer. Behind them rolled the trucks, the men sitting in tight groups. They apparently expected no trouble.
“I’d have expected them to send a patrol,” Benton said, low voiced.
“They did,” Horne replied.
They looked at him, startled. His eyes were on the gray-green column. He had sighted the fifty at the gun aperture on the tank.
“All right,” he said suddenly.
His gun broke into a hoarse chatter, slamming steel-jacketed bullets at the tank. Then its muzzle lifted suddenly and swept the second truck. Soldiers were shouting and yelling, spilling from trucks like madmen, but the two first trucks were smashed into carriers of death before the men could move. The Germans farther back had found their enemy, and steel-jacketed bullets smashed into the parapet. Pommy felt something like a hot whiplash along his jaw.
They were above the column and out of reach of the tank. Mike Horne stood up suddenly and depressed the gun muzzle. The tank was just below. The gun chattered, and the tank slewed around sideways and drove full tilt into the rock wall as though to climb it.
Horne dropped back. “The older ones have a soft spot on top,” he said.
The men of the broken column ran for shelter. Some of them tried to rush the steep path, but the fire blasted them back to the road, dead or dying. Others, trying to escape the angry bursts from the two guns, tried to scramble up the walls of the pass but were mowed down relentlessly.
It had been a complete and shocking surprise. The broken column became a rout. Horne stopped the .50 and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He winked at Ryan.
“Nice going, kid. That’s one tank that won’t bother your pals.”
Ryan peered around the rocks. The pass was empty of life. The wrecked tank was jammed against the rock wall, and one of the trucks had plunged off the precipice into the ravine. Another was twisted across the road.
A
Similar Books
The West End Horror
Nicholas Meyer
Shelter
Sarah Stonich
The Cyberkink Sideshow
Ophidia Cox
All The Turns of Light
Frank Tuttle
Flee
Ann Voss Peterson, J.A. Konrath
Cinderella in Overalls
Carol Grace
Every Little Thing Gonna Be Alright
Hank Bordowitz
I Love You More: A Novel
Jennifer Murphy
Nefarious Doings
Ilsa Evans
Texas Tango: A Flint Rock Novel
Glenn Smith